The Relapse
by TackaTacka
Summary: After a week of terrible mood swings on Sherlock's behalf, a fight results on John walking out for the night. He comes home to find Sherlock has succumbed to an old habit. But the reasoning here runs much deeper than boredom. Rated M for drug use, references to dub-con and sexual content
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I tried to make the drug symptoms, treatments, etc as accurate as possible, but I apologise if anything's wrong. Also apologising for any errors, haven't had anyone else proof read.

Characters do not belong to me, etc, etc you know the deal by now.

Chapter 1:

**Heading home, stopping at tescos on way, should I get milk?**

John sent off the message to Sherlock as he walked up the cold section of the 24 hour Tesco's. He sighed as he looked down at his phone, wondering whether he should send a message saying sorry as well. It had been two weeks since their last case, and Sherlock had been driving him up the wall; swinging wildly between in-your-face, snappy argumentative and silent, sulky and withdrawn. He was used to dealing with Sherlock's moods, but the last week had been more intense than anything he'd experienced previously. This had all culminated in a very heated argument the day before, which had resulted in John storming out, telling Sherlock that maybe he should find a flatmate who wasn't so oblivious, ordinary and in the way.

A night spent on Sarah's couchand a day spent wandering around the park reflecting on the past week had led John to the decision that he and Sherlock needed to talk. Something was obviously wrong with the detective, and they needed to get it sorted before it got any further out of hand.

Ten minutes loitering around the milk and still no reply - that was odd, that was very odd. Sherlock was always asking John to buy more milk; he hated tea without it. Something niggled at the back is brain - the same thing that had saved his life more than once in Afghanistan – telling him something wasn't right. Abandoning the milk isle, he abruptly turned and headed out to catch a cab.

Five minutes and a very well tipped cabbie later and John was taking the stairs up to the flat two at a time, pulling his keys out of his pocket as he went. He fumbled with them for a moment when he reached the door to the flat, his haste making him clumsy, but he soon had the keys in the lock and was letting himself in.

Sherlock's mind wandered aimlessly, a state only achieved with chemical aid much stronger than nicotine. He lay haphazardly across the couch, his favourite tools of the trade still strewn across the coffee vial had contained heroin, as oppose to his usual friend cocaine, but he wasn't trying to think faster right now. He had discovered at university that heroin stopped him caring; he didn't care that his roommate Sebastian hated him, he didn't care about his lack of friends, he didn't care that nobody would take what he did seriously. It all sort of washed away into the void. That's what he'd wanted – to stop caring completely for the first time in months. But it hadn't worked; he still knew John had left and probably wasn't coming back, still regretted what he'd said, still missed him, still felt everything he'd been trying to repress with increasing failure over the last boring fortnight. Hell, it was the only thing he _could_ clearly focus on.

His morose contemplation was disrupted by a rattling of the door knob. Probably just Mrs Hudson; she'd go away if he stayed quiet. Looking back, if he hadn't been high, he would have known those footsteps most certainly did not belong to Mrs Hudson.

For a split second as John entered the room, he thought his gut was going to be wrong, that it was all okay after all,that Sherlock was just lazing on the couch as usual. When that split second had past he began to notice things; the syringe and empty vial on the table, Sherlock's pin-prick pupils, his sleep-slow breathing though he was clearly awake…

All of this resulted in a few seconds of silence before John slammed the door, storming over to Sherlock as he started to scream.

"What the fuck Sherlock?! What the hell are you doing?! You do realise that shit destroys your brain you stupid fucking idiot of a genius! Maybe I'll drag you down to Scotland Yard right now and see what Lestrade has to say, I'm sure he's going to love having a junkie on his cases! How could you do this Sherlock?!"

He snatched the vial and syringe off the table and threw them in the fire as Sherlock watched on silently.

"Well?" John demanded, "Do I get to know why you decided this was a great fucking idea? And I swear to god Sherlock Holmes if you say you were bored I will end you!"

John stared at him furiously, waiting for an answer.

"You're back," Sherlock murmured after a minute, voice hoarse.

"No shit Sherlock," John snapped back, crossing his arms. "If you weren't fucking high you would have known that before I even got in the door. Fine then, you're obviously in no state to explain. Can you at least tell me what you've taken?"

Sherlock blinked sluggishly, brain obviously trying to form a response through the haze. "Heroin. Didn't wanna feel," he slurred after a moment.

John gave a frustrated huff before climbing the stairs to his bedroom to fetch his medical kit. He took a few deep breaths as he did so, trying to get into doctor mode for the time being. By the time he was back in front of Sherlock with his kit he was marginally calmer, anger pushed just underneath the surface.

"Right, I'm going to check your vitals, and then I'm going to give you a bit of naloxone," John explained, no longer yelling. "It'll help reverse the effects faster. You're bloody lucky I still had some left from that case with the heroin killer or I might have been calling an ambulance regardless of the consequences."

John took Sherlock's vitals – heart rate slow, low blood pressure, sluggish reflexes, slow breathing; all the normal signs of heroin use but nothing that sent up red flags. His temperature was normal and his heart beat was still regular; it didn't look like he'd overdosed at all. Nevertheless, John still decided to give him a shot of naloxone, just to get him functional enough to get to bed and sleep the rest off.

Within minutes of the injection Sherlock could feel his brain coming back online, now able to process what had happened beyond the surprise of John's return. He could honestly say he had thought the doctor wouldn't be coming back this time, except maybe to collect his things, hence the relapse. He knew that the assumption had been illogical – it definitely hadn't been their first bad fight – but he hadn't been thinking particularly logically recently, especially without the distraction of a case. The whole thing was rather humiliating actually, an emotion he didn't often experience, and now he was regretting his actions; another rare thing for him. The last thing he'd wanted was for John to be even angrier at him, and that's exactly what he'd achieved.

John entered the lounge room again, medical bag safely tucked away and a glass of water now in hand.

"Drink this," John told him, and for once he did as he was told, accepting the glass without argument. "Feeling more clear-headed now?"

Sherlock just nodded, not trusting himself to open his mouth in case he said the wrong thing.

"Good. Now, do you want to talk about this now or later? Because we are going to talk about it Sherlock, even if I have to wring every thought from the big brain of yours with my own hands."

Sherlock worked hard to stop himself blushing at the commanding tone. _Stop it_, he thought to himself, _you've already slipped up once tonight, if you want to keep John around you won't do it again_.

"Later," he murmured, eyes downcast, "I'm not feeling very well right at this moment."

John rolled his eyes as he stepped forward and, to Sherlock's utter surprise grabbed both his arms and pulled him to his feet.

"Yes, well, that's what happens if you dose yourself up with drugs Sherlock; they're not good for you."

John's snappy reply sounded like an echo as blood rushed through Sherlock's ears and away from his head, causing his stomach to suddenly drop. He clumsily pushed John out the way and stumbled to the bathroom where he promptly emptied his stomach; thankfully it was mostly the water John had given him five minutes ago. When his stomach had stopped trying to turn itself inside out his head dropped onto the rim of the toilet seat, eyes closed as he tried to regulate his breathing. He was surprised to feel a warm hand rubbing soothing circles across his back, another holding the hair away from his face.

"You idiot," John murmured softly after a moment, handing an ashen Sherlock some water to rinse his mouth out with. "Guess this is the first time you've used in a while huh?"

Sherlock was so profoundly grateful for John's gently tone he could have cried, if Holmes's did such a thing.

"Last time was six months before we met," Sherlock replied quietly, glad he could answer something without incriminating himself. There'd been a dry spell in cases that month, and without a John in the flat to distract him and care for him he'd been unable to resist the temptation of the cocaine bottle. Funny how it was now caring which had driven him back to the drugs again.

"Well there's some good news at least," said John as he helped Sherlock to his feet, slowly this time. "I'd have to re-evaluate my belief in my doctor abilities if you'd been using all this time under my nose."

Sherlock let John guide him from the bathroom, but was confused when John tried to turn him towards the stairs instead of the bedroom.

"I need to be able to keep an eye on you tonight," John explained, nearly pushing him towards the stairs, "And I may have invaded Afghanistan but I'm not brave enough to venture into your room, so you're sleeping in mine."

This time there was no way Sherlock could prevent the blush from staining his cheeks. He'd imagined this, fantasised about John saying something like that, with increasing frequency over the past two weeks, though he fantasies never involved a heroin dose beforehand. If John noticed his blush he didn't say anything as he helped Sherlock up the stairs, probably just assuming it was because he was unwell.

When John pulled back the covers of the double bed, Sherlock crawled in without a word, brain now functioning well enough to deduce which side John usually slept on so he could lay down on the other. As soon as John left the room, saying something about water and buckets, Sherlock buried his head in John's pillow and inhaled, revelling in the smell of the doctor. It was probably for the best that he wasn't feeling so fantastic or lying in John's bed surrounded by John's scent would probably have left him with some rather awkward physical reactions. Now all he had to do was get through the night without doing or saying anything stupid and hopefully everything could go back to the way it had been before.

John returned to the room a few minutes later to find Sherlock curled up in a ball facing away from the door. He placed a bucket on the floor next to Sherlock and a glass of water on the bedside table before turning the light off and heading round the bed and crawling in the other side, careful not to disturb the bed too much in case Sherlock was already asleep.

He'd spent a few minutes laying on his back staring at the ceiling, contemplating why Sherlock would do such a thing when he felt the man in question convulse and jerk upright.

"There's a bucket next to the bed," John told him as he leaned over and switched on the bedside light. When he turned around Sherlock was heaving and gagging over the bucket in his lap, though it didn't look like he was actually bringing anything up. _Probably hasn't eaten anything in the last day to bring up_, John thought. For a full grown man, Sherlock really had no regard for how to look after himself.

Nevertheless, he was suffering now, and though it was his own fault, John couldn't just leave him to it. He shuffled over, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's waist to help support him and brushing the hair off his forehead with the other, murmuring soothing words. After a few moments Sherlock's stomach seemed to accept the fact there was nothing it could do, and the heaving stopped, leaving Sherlock gasping. John gently prised the bucket from his grip and lent over to put it on the floor, surprised when Sherlock's head dropped to rest on his shoulder. It was very rare that the man allowed himself any sort of comforting contact, and even when he did it was nothing more than a pat on the shoulder or something similar, just enough to reassure him that they were both still alive and mostly intact. So John let him rest there for a moment, rubbing his thumb in slow circles over Sherlock's shoulder blade and trying to ignore how good it felt to have the lanky detective in his arms.

Not surprisingly, it wasn't long before Sherlock pulled away, turning over and curling back up into the ball he'd been in before. John sighed quietly and flicked off the bedside lamp.

"Sorry about that, didn't mean to wake you," Sherlock muttered once he was hidden in darkness. John's eyes widened and he was stunned into silence. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard that word sincerely leave Sherlock's lips, and that was usually because he'd been rather seriously injured in Sherlock's eagerness to catch a criminal.

"The reaction's not usually this bad…" Sherlock trailed off, sounding much sadder and sorrier than John had ever heard him before.

"I wasn't asleep," John assured him. "It's probably because your body's not used to it anymore. Also the sudden inhibition of the drug by the naloxone can make some people nauseous. And don't worry about waking me up; the whole point of you being here is so I can keep an eye on you."

Sherlock was silent, though it was obvious from his breathing that he wasn't asleep yet.

"Why'd you do it?" John whispered, not really expecting Sherlock to hear. But it was obvious from the way his silhouette curled even further in on itself that he had.

"Sherlock please, I want to help you," John insisted, slightly louder now.

"I told you what it does," Sherlock muttered petulantly.

"You didn't want to feel? But Sherlock I don't understand what you'd be feeling to make you that desperate. I don't get what it could be that you couldn't delete or ignore or do whatever you usually do. Or, god forbid, just talk to somebody about."

Sherlock's reply was muffled by the pillow he had obviously buried his face in, but John managed to work it out – sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. He thought back to the last time he'd heard those words, and was struck by a moment of clarity where everything fell into place. _Huh, this is what Sherlock must feel like when he's solving crimes_, he thought to himself, taking a second to revel in the sensation; _I can see why he likes it._

"You have feelings for someone, don't you." It was a statement, not a question. "You're in love with someone and you don't know what to do about it."

He took Sherlock's complete silence as conformation.

"Jesus Sherlock, I know it can be confusing but it's not worth harming yourself like that over. If you needed some advice on talking to a girl or something you could have just come to me, surely you know I wouldn't have laughed at you or anything, I would have helped you." Actually, the thought of advising Sherlock on how to woo a lady made his stomach clench uncomfortably, but he elected to ignore that for now and soldier on. "Trust me Sherlock, no one is worth you hurting yourself over, alright? I don't care how smart or pretty she is."

John paused for breath only to realise Sherlock was trembling, and his breathing was approaching hyperventilation. _Shit, too far._

"Okay, alright, calm down," John soothed, reaching over to rub Sherlock's shoulder. The detective jumped at the contact, but it seemed to calm his breathing slightly, so John kept it up. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to push when you're already out of sorts. It's okay you can rest now, we'll talk about it in the morning alright?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but he'd stopped shaking which John took as a good sign.

"Okay, you feeling alright now?" John asked, and breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock nodded. "Not feeling nauseous or anything?" A shake of the head. "Good. You go to sleep now, and don't hesitate to wake me if you need anything. Sleep well Sherlock."

He gave Sherlock's shoulder a final squeeze before rolling over and closing his eyes. As much as he wanted to stay awake and contemplate Sherlock's very much non-sociopathic feelings, a poor night's sleep on a couch and the stress of the evening finally caught up with him, and within two minutes he was asleep.

It was about 6am when John's brain started to roll over into consciousness; a habit from his army days he'd been unable to break unless he was completely sleep deprived after a case. But something was there lulling him back to sleep, a warm pressure that wasn't usually present and kept him feeling safe and sleepy. Despite this memories from the night began trickling through, until he was able to fully remember the stress of the night before. And with that he slammed into full alertness as he realised what that warm pressure must be. Sherlock.

Sure enough, when he opened his eyes he was greeted by the sight of a mop of curly black heat resting on his chest, accompanied by an arm wrapped around his chest and a leg tucked between his own, bringing the long length of Sherlock's front against John's side. Including, John noticed as he flushed crimson, the not unimpressive morning erection pressed against his side. Even more embarrassingly, he could feel his own body responding positively.

John tried to pull away gently, but his was only met with a tighter grip and muttered sleep talking. John couldn't help but chuckle slightly; even in sleep, Sherlock was stubborn and difficult. With nothing else to do but wait until Sherlock allowed him to move away, John figured he may as well enjoy the situation. He knew he should probably feel guilty for taking advantage of what Sherlock had done unconsciously, but dammit this would be the only time he would ever get to cuddle Sherlock Holmes before he advised him on how to win the heart of whatever lucky lady had captured his, and he was going to enjoy it. He knew it was stupid, but he'd been hiding the feelings for so damn long, first from himself and then from everybody else, that he felt he'd earned himself one last moment of weakness. So he wrapped his arms around the lanky detective, buried his face in the soft curls and let the warmth pull him back to sleep.

Sherlock's rise to consciousness was slower than normal, possibly due to the comfortable warmth emanating from below him. It took his brain a few precious seconds to gather up the information from the previous night, some of which was difficult to find amongst the haze of the drug, and apply it to the situation. When he did he gasped sharply, eyes snapping open to observe himself curled around John's figure. Well things were just going from bad to worse weren't they? He'd fought with John, succumbed to the call of the drugs, been caught by John taking the drugs, been powerless to stop John mostly deducing _why_ he'd succumbed to the drugs, and now he had curled around his heterosexual flatmate in his sleep, whilst hard no less. If this was the way his week was progressing he was going to be dead or worse by the end of it.

Moving carefully so as not to wake John, he tried to shift away, only to find his progress halted by two arms wrapped around him. Great; John must have hugged him back in his sleep assuming he was one of his girlfriends. He wiggled slightly and managed to extricate himself from John's grasp, but the movement must have roused the doctor because he barely had one foot on the ground to get out of bed when he heard the doctor's voice, still gravelly from sleep.

"Good morning to you too Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed slightly and sat back down on the bed, still facing away to hide his arousal from the doctor.

"Morning. Hope I didn't disturb you." Maybe if he was polite John wouldn't make him move out when the full truth emerged. For, as much as he would fight it kicking and screaming every step of the way, Sherlock knew that eventually the full truth would emerge. It always did.

"You were fine," John replied. It didn't sound like a lie, but he refused to turn around and look John in the eye just yet, so he couldn't be sure. "Where are you going?"

"To use the bathroom and take a shower," Sherlock replied truthfully. "I always feel dirty and sweaty the night after I…" he trailed off, not wanting to put his weakness into words, "Well, I need a shower.

There was a momentary pause before John replied. "Fine. But when you're done we're going to meet in the living room, and you're going to eat the toast I give you, and then we're going to talk."

John's tone left no room for argument. So Sherlock nodded before leaving the bedroom, trying his best not to walk awkwardly and give away his state.

Once Sherlock was in the shower he rested his head against the wall, letting the water cascade over his back, and gave a shuddery sigh. He glared down at his hard on, refusing to give it what it wanted; stupid body betraying him. There was nothing to do but wait for it to go down, so he gave himself a proper clean as terrifying thoughts began bumping around in his brain. What if John hated him? Okay, so even he could recognise that wasn't particularly likely, but what if John wanted him to move out? He'd said that night at Angelo's that it was 'all fine', but he obviously thought Sherlock was interested in a woman. And though he didn't think John was homophobic, there was quite a difference between finding out your male flatmate dated other men and finding out he was desperately in love with you. He was going to have to leave Baker Street.

_No_, he thought to himself, _I'm not leaving, I was here first. When John is awkward and uncomfortable and doesn't want to be my flatmate any more, he can move out._ Sherlock smiled to himself; that was more along the lines of what he had been used to thinking pre John Watson. Seems like he hadn't completely lost himself after all. That small encouraging thought was what he used to force himself out of the shower, into some fresh pyjamas and out to the living room. This was going to break him, and it was going to hurt, for a very long time. But one day, one day he'd be able to pick up the pieces and move on. They might not fit together the way they once did, but he'd still be able to function, take cases, solve crimes. And maybe this would teach his heart not to go wondering again.

John changed into his most comfortable trousers and jumper, but left his feet bare; whatever happened, he wasn't going to storm out the flat like he did last time. He then nipped downstairs to borrow Mrs Hudson's bathroom – she was at her sister's for a few days and had said John could have a key as long as he promised to keep it from Sherlock – and grabbed some bread and milk from her fridge whilst he was there. He'd dashed home the night before without grabbing anything, so they were out of most of the essentials.

He made some tea and toast for himself, but waited until he heard the water from the shower turn off before making Sherlock's toast so it would still be on. He'd just finished smearing a little nutella, Sherlock's favourite, on the toast when the detective emerged, clean and dressed in new pyjamas. Surprisingly, Sherlock reached for the plate and ate the toast without comment, though he refused to make any eye contact. Even more surprising was when Sherlock finished the toast and actually bothered to get up and place the plate in the sink for what may have been the first time in his entire life. Was he trying to butter John up for something? Well whatever it was, the doctor would stay firm, he was going to get to the bottom of this if it killed him.

John settled into his armchair, watching Sherlock pace back and forth across the living room.

"Take a seat Sherlock."

John's gentle words were completely ignored.

"I said sit down." It was a command this time, not a request.

"Why, is your ability to speak somehow tied to my position? Are you completely incapable of speech unless I'm seated?" Sherlock snapped. John took a deep breath, calming himself. He knew the detective well enough to know that the abrasive manner, especially in circumstances like these, was a defence mechanism he seemed to fall back on almost subconsciously. He'd have to try his best to be patient.

"Alright, fine, don't sit," John replied, slight frustration leaking into his voice despite his best efforts, "I just thought it might be more comfortable."

"Transport," Sherlock replied indifferently with a vague, dismissive gesture towards his own body.

"Yes, transport that you decided to destroy last night, along with your precious brain," John retorted, "Care to explain that?"

John was met with a stony, cold stare as Sherlock paused in his pacing, before he resumed in silence, jaw clenching. John waited for a long moment to see if Sherlock would decide to make this easy. Obviously he should have known the answer would be no.

"Okay then, I'll start, and you can correct me when I'm wrong. You love doing that." This time John didn't bother trying not to sound pissed off; they both knew he was, no point in hiding it. "I come home to find you doped up on heroin you probably had hidden in the flat."

"Wrong." To anyone else, Sherlock would have sounded bored, but John could pick up the underlying tension.

"Wrong? You didn't have the heroin in the flat?" John asked. Well that was encouraging at least.

"No, I went and bought it. I meant it when I said I'd been clean."

"Alright then," John continued, slightly mollified, "You bought the heroin whilst I was out, and I came home to find you high. You took the heroin because you were experiencing feelings you didn't know how to deal with."

Sherlock paused in his pacing, facing away from John, fists clenching and unclenching. He was conspicuously silent thought.

"You're in love with someone, and you don't know how to handle it."

More silence; John could practically see Sherlock's muscles stiffening. John took a deep breath before ploughing into the most painful deduction.

"You're completely captivated; you think she's brilliant and daring and-,"

"Wrong," Sherlock spat, sounding as though the word had been forced out from behind clenched teeth.

"Wrong?" John questioned sceptically, "You're in love with someone who you think isn't brilliant and daring?"

"…No."

"That's what I thought," John responded smugly. Obviously they were going to be absolutely stunning in order to have caught Sherlock's interest; so much more than boring old John. _Focus_, he thought, _this is about helping Sherlock, not having your own pity party._

"Right," John continued, "So, she's-,"

"Wrong!" Sherlock cut him off again, sounding frustrated now, though he still couldn't see his face.

John sat in silence for a moment, confused.

"Oh for god's sake!" Sherlock exclaimed, spinning around suddenly to glare at John. "I know your memory is tediously dull but surely you recall me telling you that girls. Aren't. My. Area!" And with that little outburst he flopped down on the couch, curled up in the foetal position around the union jack cushion with his back to John.

Realisation dawned on John's face.

"Ohhh," John responded, "Okay, sorry, my bad, shouldn't have assumed. _He _is brilliant and daring and brave and gorgeous and you can't stop thinking about him."

Finally silence.

"Hang on, is that the reason you've been so afraid to tell me? Why you didn't talk to me about it? Did you think I'd have a problem with the fact you're in love with a man?" John inquired, worried. To be honest, it make the whole thing a bit more painful – he was so close, but so far – but he'd never worry Sherlock with that. He'd support the man one hundred percent, and the thought of Sherlock harming himself because he didn't know that was distressing to say the least.

Thankfully, Sherlock shook his head, though that left confusion in its wake.

"Then I don't understand; why didn't you just talk to me about it?" John pleaded, "I could have helped you sort through it all, I could have helped you figure out how to tell him. I would never tease you about it Sherlock I hope you know that. I could still help you figure out how to tell him." And wouldn't that be exquisitely painful, helping his love plan on how to confess to another, but for Sherlock, he'd do it. For Sherlock, he'd do anything.

But Sherlock shook his head, hands gripping the union jack pillow so hard his knuckles were white. "I'm not going to tell him," Sherlock mumbled into the pillow.

"What?!" John exclaimed, "Your feelings for this man are so strong you resorted to using drugs and you're not going to tell him?" Another shake of the head. "Why on earth not?"

"Because," Sherlock whispered, sounding so distressed it took everything John had not to curl up behind him and cuddle him, "he won't return them. And it's not worth the risk."

"Even you can't know that," John insisted. If Sherlock hadn't figured out John was in love with him, it was entirely possible he'd missed the signs from other people as well. "And I know it's a risk, but trust me, it's worth it. Anything has to be better than where you are now; what's the worst that can happen?"

Sherlock just shook his head, visibly trembling now. But John was so close, he couldn't give up now.

"Go on, tell me, absolute worst case scenario, what happens?" He was determined to prove the benefits would outweigh the risks.

The flat was absolutely silent for a moment, tension building in the air, before Sherlock let out a long sigh, sounding for all the world like he'd been told everything he'd ever loved was gone. And then, in a sad, resigned voice, he replied.

"The truth makes him too uncomfortable and I lose my flatmate, by blogger and my best friend."

The confession pushed its way out of Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock suddenly far too tired of carrying the secret he'd held close for months. There, it was out, in a way even John couldn't misinterpret; now he just needed a clean break so he could get on with moving past this. He knew it would be a long, painful process – John was far more important than any drug had ever been – but he would do his best not to let the doctor see the full extent of the damage. After all, it wasn't his fault that Sherlock couldn't live up to his own title of a sociopath.

After a long moment of stifling silence, he couldn't help the chuckle hollowly at the irony of John's previous words.

"Not so keen to help now huh?" he remarked dryly, though the tone was marred by the tremble he could quite keep out of his voice. "Don't worry about it John, it's not your fault. Well, maybe it is a little - if you weren't so brilliant this wouldn't be an issue - but I don't blame you. I've been the idiot." He took a deep breath, willing himself not to lose any more control than he already had.

"Sherlock, yo-"

"No John," Sherlock interrupted, voice sightly louder and sharper now even as he curled further in on himself, arms wrapped around his torso in an effort to stop himself falling apart. "I _don't_ want your pity, I _don't_ need to hear you say 'I'm flattered Sherlock but I'm not gay'," – his impression of John was good, if a bit over the top – "and I _don't_ need to hear any platitudes or apologies for something you clearly had no control over. However, I'd prefer it if you moved out of Baker Street now; we both know the awkwardness of the situation will escalate over the coming weeks until you come home from work in a fortnight or two to inform me that you're moving in with Harry or Sarah or whoever else will take you in until you can find housing on your own, and I'd much rather just cut to the chase. I'd be happy to email you details of cases occasionally for your blog, but other than that I think I'd prefer to be left alone; it's always protected me before. And I suppose I should apologise for all this really, I know it's rather inconvenient for you, but I assure you I had no intension of-"

"Sherlock!" John barked, snapping him out of his rambling. Sherlock clamped his jaw closed, realising with embarrassment that he'd been blathering in an attempt to hide the extent of the pain from John.

"You really think I'm brilliant?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock frowned, confused by the question; out of everything he'd said that's what John chose to focus on? He turned his head, very aware of his red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks, to observe. What he saw…wasn't what he'd been expecting. He'd been expecting confusion, discomfort, pity, even disgust. What he got was…well, he wasn't really sure; that facial expression had never been directed at him before, he didn't know what to make of it.

"Of course John," Sherlock sighed as if the answer was obvious. "You said yourself not ten minutes ago that the person I…care for must be brilliant, daring, brave and gorgeous. Now knowing what you know, it is logical to assume I believe those verbs belong to you."

John gasped, his eyes beginning to water, and Sherlock turned his head away again, arms tightening around himself once more. He'd made a stupid mistake again, obviously; maybe it wasn't appropriate to compliment someone if you had unrequited feelings for them. He wished John would just leave already, so he could allow himself to break down a little in solitude.

He heard John's footsteps approaching the couch, but his only reaction was to bury his head further into the pillow. When John spoke, his voice was right near Sherlock's head; _he must be kneeling right behind me,_ Sherlock though.

"Sherlock, could you turn around please?" John requested gently. Sherlock shook his head; he knew what was coming, but that didn't mean he wanted to face it.

"Please Sherlock, this is important," John pleaded. "Just look at me when I tell you this, and then if you want me to leave the flat and never see you again I will."

Well didn't that just sound exquisitely painful? However, that was why Sherlock needed it over and done with as quickly as possible; like ripping off a band aid, except this was going to reveal an open wound not a healed one. So he flopped over onto his other side, still curled up with his arms wrapped around himself, and found a spot on the floor to focus on whilst John broke him.

However, that plan, along with every other train of thought, was broken when John's hand came to rest underneath him chin, pushing up gently until Sherlock had no choice but to meet his eyes. As soon as they locked eyes the hand under his chin moved to his cheek, thumb rubbing against his cheek bone softly. He didn't understand why John was dragging this out; he wasn't usually a cruel man. But, despite knowing what was coming, Sherlock couldn't help but close his eyes and revel in the gentle touch, the feeling of warm, calloused fingers caressing his face.

"Look at me," John murmured softly, and in such close proximity Sherlock couldn't help doing what John wanted. So he made eye contact, memorising the particular shade of blue he was gazing into; he wanted his memory of John to remain perfect despite the pain.

"Sherlock, listen very carefully," John commanded, quiet but insistent. "You are the most important person to me in the entire world. I would do anything for you; I would kill for you – have killed for you – and if I needed to I would be happy to die for you to. I'd probably be dead already if I hadn't met you. When you came into my life you bought with you everything I never knew I needed. All those feelings you think are one sided? They're not. Sherlock Holmes, I love you too."

Sherlock's absolutely gob-smacked expression would have been funny in any other situation. As it was it was kind of heart-breaking; it was like he hadn't even considered the fact that John could return his feelings. He knew he hadn't given many outward signs that Sherlock's feelings were reciprocated, but this was Sherlock I-can-deduce-your-entire-life-story-from-your-left -shoe Holmes; surely in hindsight it wasn't _that_ surprising.

Except apparently it was. Sherlock's eyes wouldn't stop roaming over his face, obviously looking for some sign that what John had said was a lie. John knew he wouldn't find any; he'd meant every word he'd said.

"Sherlock?" John questioned quietly after the silence had gone on for too long. "You alright?"

"You're telling the truth. You actually…care about me…like that." It wasn't a question, but he sounded like he was having trouble coming to terms with what was obviously a difficult concept for him.

"That's right," John confirmed with a smile, "I love you. I'm _in_ love with you. And I'd very much like to kiss you now, if's that's alright with you."

The flush across Sherlock's cheeks intensified as he nodded, biting down on his inviting lower lip in a gesture that was probably born from nerves but looking unbearably tempting to John. The hand that still rested on Sherlock's cheek slid around to the nape of his neck, carding gently through the small curls there as Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut. John's heart was racing as he leant forward and, using his hand to guide Sherlock's head, bought their lips together. It was just a brush as first; barely enough pressure to be considered a kiss, but it was enough to send a shiver down John's spine. He leant in again with more pressure this time, and was delighted when Sherlock returned the kiss with a gentle pressure of his own, lips even softer than they looked. He caressed that gorgeous cupid's bow, coaxing Sherlock to mimic the motion until there was a tender give and take of pressure and movement. It was obvious Sherlock didn't have much experience in the area, but he caught on quickly, and John found his initial shyness endearing. His other hand moved to rub slow circles on Sherlock's hip, glad to feel the tension rapidly easing out of his muscles. After an infinitely long moment, John pulled away, smiling gently at the small noise of discontent Sherlock made.

"Mind if I join you on the couch?" John whispered, wanting to move from the awkward position. He expected Sherlock to sit up, allowing John to sit next to him, but instead he just shuffled back, straightening his legs out so that there was enough room for John to lie down next to him. But the surprise didn't stop him from climbing up next to the lanky detective until they were lying face to face, just inches apart.

"Lift your head," John requested, voice still soft as if a normal volume would somehow ruin what was happening. Sherlock complied, and John slid his right arm out from where it was awkward tucked next to him, allowing Sherlock to use it as a cushion. He curled his fingers in Sherlock's soft hair, his other arms draping itself over Sherlock's waist, holding but not trapping.

"Alright?" John checked, his forehead resting against Sherlock's.

Sherlock nodded, his fingers gripping at John's shirt to tug him closer. "Again."

John was only too happy to comply, closing his eyes to focus on the feeling of Sherlock's lips moving intoxicatingly against his own. Sherlock moaned slightly as John sucked gently on his bottom lip, a sound so delicious he couldn't help but want to cause it again. So he bit down softly on Sherlock's full lower lip, causing the man to shudder and gasp. Not one to waste an opportunity, John took advantage of Sherlock's open lips to flick his tongue over the spot he'd just bitten before sliding his tongue into Sherlock's hot mouth. Sherlock froze at the intrusion, obviously not expecting it. John pulled back, pecking Sherlock on the nose before resting his forehead back against Sherlock's.

"Have you done this before?" John murmured, though he suspected he knew the answer.

"Define 'this'," Sherlock replied, averting his gaze to look down at the couch.

"Been with anyone. Sexually. In any way, shape or form," John explained, stroking Sherlock's scalp gently in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. He didn't really care about the answer either way, he just wanted to know so he knew what to expect.

"Sort of…" Sherlock trailed off.

"Sort of, define sort of," John responded with a slight frown.

Sherlock fidgeted with a loose thread on John's shirt, looking rather uncomfortable. "Only when I was…under the influence. Usually as a way of payment when Mycroft cut me off from family funds. There was never any kissing or anything like this, it was just sex. I never understood the appeal of the act after that; it's quick, messy, mostly painful and not that enjoyable. It's always puzzled me why people will go out of their way to seek it out, will murder over it; I just assumed it was what ordinary people do."

John's eyes watered as he pulled Sherlock into a tight hug, holding the detective to his chest as he buried his face in his curly hair, heartbroken at the confession.

"God Sherlock I'm so sorry; no wonder you have no interest in sexual relationships," John murmured thickly, refusing to cry for the man in his arms.

"What are you sorry for?" Sherlock asked, voice muffled by John's chest, "It wasn't you fault, I didn't even know you." Despite his obvious confusion, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the older man's waist, seeming for the first time to indulge in the comfort of an embrace.

"No, I know, but I'm still sorry that you went through that," John explained patiently, "I'm still sorry nobody was there to help you, to protect you in the way you needed. It hurts me to know that somebody once hurt you like that."

Sherlock nuzzled into his chest slightly, and John could feel him smiling. Had it been anyone else it would have found it odd that they were smiling after such a tragic confession, but this was Sherlock; he'd learnt long ago to just take the man's eccentricities as they came, as had come to love him for it. And now he wanted to show that to the strange man, to prove that sex didn't have to be about returning favours and the pleasure of one taken at the expense of another.

"Let me take you to bed," John whispered seductively in Sherlock's ear, feeling triumphant when he felt a shiver travel down the detective's spine. "Let me take you to bed and show you how good it can be. I promise I won't do anything you don't want, I'll stop whenever you say, and I promise it'll feel amazing."

John held his breath as he waited for Sherlock to answer, and sighed in relief as he felt a tentative nod against his chest.

"It'll feel good," John promised, pressing a kiss to his soft curls, "It'll feel _so_ good, I swear. I wouldn't lie to you."

He felt Sherlock nod again, less hesitant this time, and smiled. Grabbing Sherlock's hands from behind his back, John stood, pulling the detective with him.

"My room or yours?" he asked, standing on tip toe to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"Yours," Sherlock replied, voice raspy.

John pressed a kiss against Sherlock's cheekbone before pulling him upstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

As Sherlock followed John up the stairs to his bedroom, he began to understand what people meant when the said they had butterflies in their stomach. Except butterflies were far too gentle a creature for what he was experiencing. He'd chosen John's room, partially he liked the idea of being in a bed that smelled like the doctor, and partially because he wanted to be able to escape if something went wrong. In case he disappointed John in some way and John decided he wasn't worth the effort after all.

They paused when they reached their destination, John letting go of Sherlock's hand to close the door behind him. Sherlock attempted to school his expression and hide his nerves, but John wasn't fooled; he'd known the man far to long for that. He leaned up to kiss Sherlock gently, first one each corner of his mouth and then full on the mouth, keeping his lips closed and his movements gentle. Sherlock relaxed into this kiss, soothed by the tender kisses; John had promised it'd be good, and John wouldn't lie about something important.

John's mouth left Sherlock's, instead leaving a trail of soft, sucking kisses from the corner of his mouth, along his jaw bone and up to his ear.

"I'd very much appreciate it if you removed the pyjamas," John whispered, hands skimming up underneath Sherlock's shirt to brush at the bare skin, leaving hot trails of tingling sensation behind them. "And if after that you laid down on the bed."

Sherlock nodded and stepped away, quickly and efficiently removing his loose top and trousers. That much wasn't anything John hadn't seen anyway over the course of them living together anyway. And if he stopped to think about whether John would be more or less critical of his body in this situation he may never to as he was asked, and he didn't want to be disappointing. But his hands lingered apprehensively over his boxers; this wasn't anything shown anyone before, save the occasional medical practitioner when he detoxing, and he wasn't sure what John was expecting. He wasn't hard, he was too nervous right now for that, was that going to be a disappointment?

John noticed Sherlock's hesitation and reached out to grab his hand.

"Don't worry about that bit just yet," John advised; he didn't need Sherlock completely naked right that very second, he was just trying to avoid the awkward fumble with clothes later on. He pushed Sherlock gently backwards until he tipped onto the bed, laying on his back, propping himself up on his elbows. God he was a sight to behold; dark hair with stormy eyes, highlighted by the flush across his cheeks. Miles and miles of creamy white skin wrapped around long, lean limbs and supple muscle and only interrupted by black, silk boxers which were entirely Sherlock. And it hurt John all over again to know that somebody had hurt him, left him ignorant and afraid to discover the pleasure that that stunning body could bring.

"God you're gorgeous," John breathed, reaching out to circle a thumb gently over the inside of his knee where it crooked over the edge of the bed. "You're absolutely beautiful."

Sherlock felt his cheeks get hotter, and he squirmed on the bed slightly; compliments from John were always brilliant, especially when they were new, and John had certainly never called him beautiful before. It was painfully obvious to even somebody completely ordinary that he meant it now though. He felt his nerves slip back a few notches, tense muscles relaxing a little.

The nerves were quickly replaced by something much more foreign as John took a step back and began to remove his own clothes. He knew John had no problem with exposed skin – he'd been in the army after all – but the man tended to keep his own skin hidden by jumpers and trousers most of the time. Now, as the layers were removed, he couldn't stop his eyes roaming, cataloguing every detail. The sparse blonde hair across his chest and abs, which hadn't quite lost all of their shape from the army, his muscular thighs, all the small scars…and the big one, which would definitely warrant further scrutiny later on; he wanted to know exactly what had brought John to him. By the time he was able to observe the bulge in John's red, cotton pants, he was practically panting. So this was arousal then; interesting, and definitely already something new.

John straddled his thighs, bringing their groins tantalisingly close to each other, and Sherlock realised he was hard.

"Stop me if you feel uncomfortable alright?" John asked, distracting Sherlock. "And follow my lead."

With that John leant down to kiss him again, firmer this time, which made Sherlock moan. When he gasped in response to a nip from John, John took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth once more. Sherlock froze for a second before he remembered John's words, and then he hesitantly began mirroring John's movements, leaning further into the kiss. It was John's turn to moan as Sherlock's hot tongue slid over his; god the man was a fast learner. He mapped the inside of Sherlock's mouth as best he could, noting the spots that made him whimper for later.

When they were both running out of oxygen, which even Sherlock had to admit at this point was important, John pulled away, relocating his lips to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's elbows slid out from underneath him, causing him to pull away momentarily as he collapsed against the bed, but freeing his arms up to wrap around John when lips found his neck once more. John kissed and sucked his way to the junction where Sherlock's neck met his shoulder, where a bite was enough to make Sherlock practically scream, hips jerking involuntarily off the bed. He salved the bite with small kisses, running the other hand soothingly over Sherlock's thin, heaving chest until he calmed slightly. It was clear Sherlock had never been aware there was this much pleasure to be found in his body. This led him to wonder whether Sherlock had ever touched himself, and how he liked it. After all, he couldn't please Sherlock to the best of his ability of he didn't know what he liked. Well, only one way to find out.

"I want you to touch yourself," John murmured in Sherlock's ear, voice gruff with arousal. "I want you to show me what you like."

Sherlock's arms slid away from John back as he curled in on himself slightly, gut clenching as he felt suddenly inadequate; it was rather a foreign feeling, and not something he enjoyed.

"I don't know," he muttered, eyes averted towards the bed. "I don't really…it's just transport. It takes care of itself when I'm asleep usually."

John leant on one elbow so he could put his other hand on Sherlock's cheek, turning him until he looked at John. "That's okay," John insisted, "I guess we'll just do an experiment then, you like those." He smiled softly as Sherlock perked up underneath him. "Take off your boxers."

Sherlock's ears turned pink as he wriggled out of his boxers, self-conscious but eager for the experiment to begin. It was an adorable sight, and John couldn't help but lean down and nibble at said pink ears before gently sucking Sherlock's earlobe into his mouth.

Sherlock gasped, titling his head to grant John better access to his ear and neck. John took advantage of the distraction and reached a hand blindly into his bedside table, fishing around until he found the bottle of lube he was looking for. Flicked his tongue over the soft skin behind Sherlock's ear, he took Sherlock's hand and squeezed some of the lube into his palm, spreading it over his hand. Sherlock gasped as he felt the cold liquid, but then John bit down on his neck once more and he was promptly side-tracked.

After thinking briefly about the logistics of this, John pulled away, tugging and Sherlock's upper arms.

"Sit up for a sec," he told Sherlock, who did what he'd asked once it had registered in his foggy brain that John had actually spoken.

John slid in behind Sherlock, shuffling them both back until John was leaning against the headboard with Sherlock leaning against him. He then took Sherlock's slicked hand and guided it down to wrap around his cock, John's fingers resting on top of Sherlock's. Sherlock huffed, head falling back to rest against John right shoulder.

"Like this," John whispered in Sherlock's ear, before slowly pulling Sherlock's hand up his own shaft, delighting in the full bodied shudder that he could clearly feel run through the detective. He begun guiding Sherlock in jerking himself off, keeping the pace slow and the pressure light to start with. With all the pent up frustration that had to be there, John knew this wasn't going to take long. Luckily, it would also give Sherlock a quick recovery period, so he could let Sherlock find some release now and see how far he was willing to take this after.

Keeping his hand over Sherlock's, John turned his attention to the conveniently exposed neck, having figured out by that point exactly where on his neck Sherlock was most sensitive. He traced a path from one spot to the next with his teeth and tongue, causing Sherlock to moan and buck into his own fist. It didn't take too long for the moans to turn into frustrated whimpers, Sherlock clearly needed more.

"Experiment, remember," John reminded him. "You can hold yourself tighter, go faster if want. Figure out what you like."

John immediately felt Sherlock's grip tighten beneath his fingers, the pace picking up slightly to result in a very satisfied sigh falling from Sherlock's lips. John let go, moving both hands to rest on Sherlock's chest, feeling the breath punch out of Sherlock's lungs as his hips began to move in tandem with his hand.

Placing kisses along Sherlock's cheekbone, John bought his hands up and flicked his thumbs over Sherlock's nipples. The reaction was very gratifying; Sherlock gasped, his free hand coming to grip John's thigh. So John kept up the action, rolling the sensitive nubs between his thumb and his forefinger one at a time as he began whispering instructions in Sherlock's ear.

"Rub your thumb over the head."

"Flick your finger against the fraenulum."

"Twist slightly on the way up."

Sherlock tried each suggestion, keening when he found something he particularly liked and repeating the action several times. Precum was beading on the head of his cock, he had to be close. God he was gorgeous, John was so hard it hurt just from watching. Unable to take it any longer, he thrust his hips a little, rubbing his still clothed erection against Sherlock's arse and lower back.

Apparently that was the final straw; seconds later Sherlock shuddered violently, arching his back and moaning loudly as he came. John planted his lips against Sherlock's neck, kissing gently and stroking his sides as he rode the high, cum splashing over his chest. He gasped and shook through the aftershocks before collapsing back against John, eyes closed and face serene.

John ran one hand through Sherlock's curls as the other sought out a tissue from the bedside table to clean Sherlock off with before he got too sticky.

"How was that?" he murmured as he cleaned Sherlock.

Sherlock's only reply was a pleasant hum as he turned his head to nuzzle John's neck, brain starting to de-fuzz a little. Nuzzles morphed into kisses, which slowly turned into nips and sucks as Sherlock turned around in John's arms to face him, copying what John had been doing to him earlier.

"Hmm, good," John sighed, both hands now tangled in Sherlock's soft curls. He was so very tempted to buck up against Sherlock's beautiful hip bones, but he didn't want to scare the detective away when he'd only just begun exploring. John wanted him to know what it was like to bring another pleasure by choice, without suffering for it.

Curious, Sherlock made his way down from behind John ear to his collar bone, pausing to lavish attention every time John moaned. The last fifteen minutes had quite possibly been the most intensely pleasurable fifteen minutes of his life, and he wanted to be able to bring a similar pleasure to John. His hands raced ahead of his mouth, mapping out the chest beneath him. They came back up to brush over his shoulders, and paused when one hand found John's scar.

Sherlock pulled his head away from John's clavicle, eyes questioning. He wanted to map out every centimetre of John for permanent storage in his mind palace, especially the part which had bought John to him in the first place, but he didn't want to cause any discomfort. John replied to John's unanswered question with a fond smile and a small nod. He had some idea of what Sherlock was doing, and didn't want to interrupt.

"Just don't prod too hard," he elaborated, "the inside's still sensitive to sharp pressure, but the surface is just kinda numb."

John watched Sherlock's face as he analysed the scar, skimming over it with nimble fingers and cataloguing every deal. It was the first time anyone had payed such intense detail to one of his physical flaws; most of the time he'd left his undershirt on whilst with his girlfriends, and if they'd removed the shirt they'd pointedly ignored the scar.

"It's not a flaw John," Sherlock spoke softly, interrupting John's thoughts with his apparent mind reading abilities which John really should have been used to by that point, but wasn't.

"If you didn't have it, I wouldn't have met you," Sherlock explained. "It's not a flaw; it just proves you were strong enough to survive."

Sherlock saw what he'd said as mainly a statement of fact, but to John it was one of the most adorably sentimental things he'd ever heard, just when he needed it. He tugged on Sherlock's hair slightly, pulling him back up so he could kiss him passionately; lips, teeth and tongue speaking without words to tell Sherlock how much John loved him. Sherlock melted against him, pressing them together from chest to knees. John moaned, partially at the sensation of Sherlock's tongue sliding against his, and partially at finally finding some much needed friction, even if it was through cotton. Unable to help himself, he bucked up against Sherlock's thigh slightly, and was pleased to feel Sherlock's member twitch in response.

Feeling how hard John was, Sherlock pulled back, feeling a little guilty about leaving him like that for so long. He sat back on his heels and tugged at John's boxers, finally freeing John from their confines, much to his relief if the long sigh was anything to go on. He grabbed the bottle of lube from where it had fallen next to them, and slicked up his hand once more. He hadn't thought it was possible for John's pupils to dilate further, but apparently he'd been wrong, the blue iris reduced to nothing but a thin rim around desperate pupils.

Hand slick, Sherlock reached down and hesitantly curled his fingers around John's cock, starting with the slow, light strokes John had begun with before. John moaned Sherlock's name, hands fisting at the quilt covers by his side. _God that was a hot noise_, Sherlock thought, blood beginning to return to his cock. He grabbed John's left hand and placed it over his hand on John's cock, encouraging John to show him what he liked; he wanted to hear that noise again.

John wasn't shy; he tightened Sherlock's grip and thrust up into their hands, unable to stop imagining thrusting into another part of Sherlock. The thought was unbearably hot, and if things kept going the way they were this would all be over far before John was ready. So with considerable difficultly he stilled his hips and pulled his and Sherlock's hand away. Using Sherlock's confusion to his advantage, he flipped them over until he was straddling Sherlock's hips once more, admiring Sherlock's returning erection. He was feeling rather proud of his self control until his gaze reached Sherlock's face, where he found a confused, hurt expression.

"Was I that unsatisfactory?" Sherlock pouted. He'd thought things had been going rather well if John's panted moans and clenched fist were anything to go by. Apparently they weren't.

John had to try very hard not to laugh. "Just the opposite," John replied, burying his face in Sherlock's neck to hide his smile. The man's uncertainty in this area was adorable. "You're too good, and I'm not ready to cum yet; there's still so much I want to show you."

Sherlock shivered at John's words, and the husky voice they were said in. "Show away," he murmured, panting. He didn't know it was possible for him to become hard again so soon after climax, but apparently it was. He guessed there was something to be said for ignoring ones sexual needs for decades.

After biting down gently on Sherlock's neck, causing another shiver and a small moan, John pulled away from Sherlock's neck to look him in the eye; he had an important question.

"How far are you willing to go?" he asked, face and tone suddenly serious. With Sherlock's history he wasn't sure whether he'd be ready for full on sex right now and he didn't want to push too far.

"I…don't know," Sherlock replied honestly, "I very much like the _idea_ of receiving penetrative sex from you," – John blushed slightly at Sherlock's frank choice of words – "but I'm not whether the mental desire will translate properly into a physical one given my previous experience."

John nodded, feeling a little sad for Sherlock once more, and ran his hands through the curly locks in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. "Well, how about we give it a go, slowly, and if at any point you feel uncomfortable you tell me and we stop and try something else? Because there's lots more we can do."

"Acceptable," Sherlock replied with a nod of his own, before leaning up to press his lips to John's ending the conversation.

John's tongue soon flicked against Sherlock's lips, encouraging him to open his mouth as one hand cupped his cheek and the other tangled back into his curls. Except this time, when Sherlock responded, instead of invading his mouth John just brushed his tongue against Sherlock's, encouraging him to explore. It didn't take long for Sherlock to get the hint, fingers threading through John's short hair at the back of his head to pull him closer and allow Sherlock to explore thoroughly. He tried to mimic all the good things John had done to him; according to clenched grip on his hair and slight thrusting movements against his hip he was doing well.

It wasn't long until John pulled away, gasping for air. Sherlock's disappointed whimper quickly transformed into a satisfied moan as John's teeth dragged gently against a hard nipple. He lingered until both nipples were red and swollen, Sherlock a panting, rock hard mess beneath him. Oh it was glorious for John to see him so trusting and undone, to feel Sherlock's heart racing beneath his fingers and know he was the reason why. He made his was down Sherlock stomach, pausing at the spot just below his belly button where he appearing to be extra sensitive to leave a little, red bite mark.

Eventually John's face was level with Sherlock's groin. He diverted for a moment to push those soft, creamy thighs apart and lip his way up each one, causing Sherlock to make a strange noise somewhere between frustration and pleasure. Sherlock had been forced to do this on occasion, and the man he was pleasuring had always cum rather quickly, so he knew it would be enjoyable. But he didn't want John to feel obligated; he certainly hadn't enjoyed the task at the time.

"John, you don't have to…," he panted, unable to finish the sentence as John nosed at the base of his cock.

"I know," John replied, warm breath washing over Sherlock and making him squirm, "I want to. Just try to keep your hips as still as you can, alright?"

John's hands pressed down firmly on Sherlock's sharp hip bones, before he leaned down and licked a stripe from base to tip, wrapping his lips over the head of Sherlock's cock when he got there.

"Fuck!" Sherlock gasped, head thrown back against the pillows as John moved down his length. John moaned at the knowledge that he could make the man lose his usual prim and proper way of speaking so thoroughly, and the vibrations only made Sherlock groan louder.

Sherlock was thankful John's hands were on his hips, because he really wasn't very confident in his ability to hold still unassisted as John flicked his tongue over the underside of his cock. God the wet heat was incredible; no wonder people went to such great lengths to receive this particular sexual favour. As John pulled up to tonguing gently at the slit, suckling the tip slightly, Sherlock's hands flew to John's head, not pushing down like he wanted to, just holding. Brushing his fingertips across John's scalp gave him something else to focus on apart from the wethotyespleasenowmorefuck racing through his head, threatening to overwhelm him far too quickly.

John smiled – well, as best he could under the circumstances – at the feeling on Sherlock's hands on his head, those long fingers grazing his scalp and making things all the more pleasurable. And, surprisingly, the action _was_ enjoyable. It had been something he'd wanted to give Sherlock, but not something he'd thought he'd actively like doing. But feeling the detective coming apart around him, all desperate fingers and tense muscles and gasping breaths, and knowing he was the sole cause? How could he not enjoy that? _And_, he thought to himself as he flicked his tongue over the slit again, _the taste isn't that bad either_.

Once Sherlock let out a particularly tortured moan, John decided he'd teased enough. He took more of the detective's cock into his hot mouth, receiving a grateful sigh on Sherlock's behalf, and grabbed blindly for the bottle of lube, spreading it over both hands. Ready to move forward, John swallowed around Sherlock, taking as much of his length as he could without choking, and wrapped a lubricated hand around what he couldn't. Sherlock trembled and moaned John's name, much to John's satisfaction, as his fingers clenched. Convinced Sherlock was sufficiently distracted, a brought his other hand forward and pressed a slippery index finger against Sherlock's hole, just massaging in small circles for now.

Sherlock jumped a little at the slightly cold, unexpected contact; his mind had been too thoroughly blanked to see it coming. The touch made in a little nervous, but it was alright. It felt nice actually, the cool, steady pressure against his entrance coupled with the hot, intense pleasure resulting from John's mouth. At least it was, until John pulled away, planting a kiss against the tip of his cock before looking up at him.

"All good?" John checked, panting. So he had sound giving the pleasure enjoyable as well; interesting. Perhaps it was different with someone you wanted. Something to file away for later.

Sherlock nodded. "Fine," he gasped, "better than I thought. Haven't…had fingers before."

John's eyebrows furrowed; he looked distressed. "No wonder you didn't like it," John murmured, leaning down to plant a tender kiss on the inside of one thigh. "This will be much better, I promise. I just need you to relax alright, and tell me if you want me to stop or slow down."

Sherlock nodded again, taking a deep breath. Well, half a deep breath, it turned into a gasp half way through as John leant forward slightly to take one of Sherlock's testicles into his mouth and sucked very gently. Sherlock's hands, which had dropped to his sides, immediately returned to John's head, wishing for a moment that John wasn't so keen on keeping his hair nearly military short so he'd have something to grab onto properly.

After a few moments, John increased the pressure against Sherlock's entrance until he pressed in, just up to the first knuckle. Sherlock shivered; it was a…strange feeling, it didn't hurt, but the _idea_ that part of John was inside him was far more pleasurable than the actual sensation. He focused on relaxing his muscles, which had tightened instinctively against the intrusion, and tugged on John's hair slightly, encouraging him to move further with a moaned "more".

John moved to the other testicle as he slid his finger further, moving slowly but surely until his finger was fully engulfed by Sherlock. He gave Sherlock a minute to adjust, moving to tongue his way up Sherlock's cock once more to distract him from any discomfort, before wriggling slightly. With his experience as a doctor, it didn't take too long before he found what he was looking for, and as he ran his tongue over the head of Sherlock's member he brushed the pad of his finger deliberated over Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock nearly screamed, back arching high off the bed as pleasure shot through every nerve ending like electricity

"Fucking hell, John, again, now, please, John, again," Sherlock rasped, pushing back against John's finger in an attempt to experience that sensation again; it was lucky he'd cum not long ago or it'd all be over already.

John moaned at Sherlock's obscene reaction, half way convinced he could cum just from watching that reaction over and over. He set up a rhythm of shallow thrusts of his finger as he kissed his way up Sherlock's body, brushing over his prostate at random intervals so that Sherlock couldn't guess when it was going to happen next; causing the detective to shudder and gasp and swear every time. Eventually he reached the detectives neck, kissing up the marks which were starting to show on the alabaster skin until he could whisper in his ear.

"I'm going to put in another and stretch you a bit, it that alright? It might be a bit uncomfortable, just relax and tell me if it's too much yeah?"

Sherlock hummed and nodded in response before turning his head so he could kiss John properly. John slid his tongue into Sherlock's mouth at the same time he added an extra finger, stilling his hand to let Sherlock relax as he distracted him with his lips and tongue.

Trying to ignore the sharp twinge as he was stretched, Sherlock kissed back, focusing how passionately John was kissing him instead. After a few moments the burn faded to a slight discomfort, and he moved his hips experimentally. Finding no additional pain, he gave John permission to move, tipping his head back in a silent request for more attention on his neck.

Only too happy to oblige, John planted wet kisses down Sherlock's neck as he began to slowly move his fingers. Once Sherlock seemed comfortable enough to be meeting John's thrusts he crooked his fingers to return attention to Sherlock's prostate, watching his cock twitch at the sensation.

"You can touch yourself if you want to," John murmured after placing a kiss behind Sherlock's ear. "Just don't cum yet, I want you to cum with me properly inside you."

Sherlock whimpered at the words, his hand trailing down his torso until it formed a loose fist around his cock. It provided just enough friction to push Sherlock's pleasure up a notch, and John took the opportunity to start scissoring his fingers gently, slowly stretching Sherlock open as he made sure to brush Sherlock's prostate often enough for the pleasure to outweigh the pain.

Twenty minutes, some more lube and an extra finger later, Sherlock was practically writhing on the bed, both hands fisted slightly in the sheets. His cock, which he'd had to abandon for fear he'd cum too soon, was deep red and harder than he'd thought possible, aching for attention as precum beaded on the head. He was ready to quit the prep and have john inside him already; actually, he'd been ready about five minutes ago, now he was desperate.

"John Hamish Watson…I swear…if you do not get on with it…and fuck me…right now…they will never…find…your body," he panted, incapable by this point of getting the whole sentence out in one go.

John grinned, flicking his tongue across Sherlock's nipple one more before sitting up and slowly pulling his fingers from Sherlock. Sherlock whimpered at the loss, feeling empty after having those fingers in him for so long, but eager for what was next.

John grabbed a condom from the draw and rolled it on before applying some lube. He grabbed one of his reading pillows and, after getting Sherlock to lift up, slid it on his hips to improve the angle. Placing one of Sherlock's legs over his good shoulder and the other around his waist, he leant down to press a soft kiss against Sherlock's lips before lining himself up with Sherlock's entrance.

"I'll go slow," John assured him, seeing the nerves flick across Sherlock's face now that the moment was finally here, "and we stop any time you want. I love you."

A smile flashed across Sherlock's face at the words, and he leant forward to give a soft kiss of his own before tugging at John with his legs slightly.

John pushed in slowly but surely, burying himself to the hilt in one long, gentle move before stopping to let Sherlock adjust. The tight heat was incredibly intense, and he was grateful for the slightly dulling sensation of the rubber, or it may have all been over before it began. He buried his heat in Sherlock's neck, planting soft kisses there in an effort to simultaneously distract him from the overwhelming urge to move and sooth Sherlock's discomfort.

Sherlock couldn't deny that the action had hurt. But it wasn't the violent stabbing, searing pain he'd experienced before, it was tolerable; a burning, stretching sensation which was uncomfortable but not bad enough for him to say stop. Nevertheless, he was profoundly grateful when John stopped moving - apparently pausing simply to give him time to become accustomed to the sensation – and the gentle kisses were a comforting sensation.

After a few moments, the burn had settled into a sort of vague discomfort, the kind Sherlock was sure could be cured with some sort of movement.

"John, move. Please," he murmured in John's ear, shifting his hips slightly.

John lifted his head to look Sherlock in the eye as he slowly pulled about half way out before thrusting back in. He couldn't help but moan at the tight friction, the sensation only heightened by Sherlock's smouldering eyes and shuddered gasp.

"Tell me when I find the good spot, alright?" he whispered, and proceeded to change angles slightly with each thrust, not wanting to chase his own pleasure before he was sure he could guarantee Sherlock's.

Turned out Sherlock didn't have to say anything, the exulted cry and full bodied shudder where ample indication that John had found Sherlock's prostate, and he grinned at his success.

"Just there hey?" he chuckled lowly, before proceeding to hit that spot as often as possible, thrusts becoming harder and faster.

Sherlock squirmed with pleasure, pushing back to meet John thrust for thrust. The friction against his insides, a sensation which had once disgusted him, now made it feel like someone had lit the best fire possible in the pit of his abdomen, and each brush of his prostate set of sparks between his eyelids. But what really pushed him close to the edge was the fact that it was John who was surrounding him, inside of him, pleasuring him – it was everything he'd thought he'd never want and never known he'd need, but god he needed it now.

"John please," he pleaded, begging to the only person who could ever make him do so, "So close…just need…please…"

_Thank Christ_, John thought to himself; he'd been unsure how much longer he'd be able to hold out against the pressure building up inside of him as the tight heat surrounded him. He took half a second to really look at Sherlock, to memorise the sight of him needy and trusting and vulnerable, before he wrapped a hand around Sherlock's cock.

A few strokes and a flick of his thumb over the head were all it took for Sherlock to scream his release, this orgasm even more intense and longer lasting than the first. The muscles surrounding John spasmed and tightened, and that was enough to tip him over the edge, the release all the more intensely gratifying for the long build up. He collapsed on top of Sherlock as both of Sherlock's legs slid to the bed, chest heaving as he shivered through the after shocks.

After an incredibly long moment, John gently pulled out and pulled away just enough to remove and dispose of the condom and flop down next to Sherlock, pulling the lanky man into his arms and burying his face in his dark hair.

"I love you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the soft curls, "I love you."

Sherlock nuzzled into John's chest, long limbs attaching him to John's side like a limpet.

"I haven't heard that in a long time," he confessed, voice muffled by John's chest, "Not since I was five."

"What happened when you were five?" John whispered, one hand snaking up Sherlock's back to stroke his hair.

Sherlock leaned into the touch silently for a moment before answering. "I deduced Father's affair. Accidently of course – I didn't know that asking him about the other lady he'd been visiting at the dinner table would cause such a stir. Mummy used to be the only one who'd say it to me; she stopped saying it after that."

John sighed sorrowfully, planting another kiss to Sherlock's curls. With his past, it was no wonder the genius had become so abrasive and closed off.

"Well I'm going to make sure I tell you every day," John promised.

"And show me often too?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

John chuckled. "That too. I take it you enjoyed yourself then?" He asked the question lightly, but meant it in all seriousness; he wanted to be sure that he'd been able to give Sherlock a positive experience after so many negative ones.

Curls brushed over John's chest as Sherlock nodded. "I…didn't know it could be like that," he admitted. "Did you…like it too?"

A satisfied smile spread over John's face. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. And 'like' is an understatement; trust me, you've got nothing to worry about."

A yawn interrupted Sherlock's reply, and he closed his eyes, deciding to leave discussions about what else they could do until later.

"Why am I tired, I didn't wake up that long ago," Sherlock moaned lightly; he hated wasting time sleeping.

"You don't sleep well at the best of times, and you've stressed yourself recently, mind and body," John replied, wiggling and fidgeting until he had them laying under the covers, not on them. "Go to sleep for a bit, I'll be here when you wake up. And we can talk about how you're going to talk to me next time instead of taking drugs."

"Don't need to talk," Sherlock whispered, "I won't do it again, promise."

John smiled, for once genuinely believing the detective would keep his word. However, the words which really made his heart stutter were the ones Sherlock mumbled into his chest, just on the verge of sleep.

"I love you John."


End file.
